


Sugar

by syrupwit



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Gen, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Dib gets supplies.Written for city-creek in a Discord Secret Santa exchange.
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101





	Sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [city-creek](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=city-creek).



> Happy Holidays, city-creek / SinCity! I hope that this entertains you :D

Dib knocks, then knocks again. No answer. He adjusts the duffle bag hefted over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. He peers through the window: nothing. He reaches for the doorbell.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Zim yanks Dib into the house. 

“Well?” Zim hisses, having slammed the door shut. “Have you got the stuff?”

“Jeez, dude, you make it sound like I’m your drug dealer or something. Yeah, it’s all there.” Dib unzips the bag to let Zim peek inside. “I hit up like ten convenience stores.” (Six, actually.)

Zim releases a small shriek and re-zips the bag, shoves it back against Dib’s chest. “We need to hurry. _They’re getting hungry._ ”

With this ominous proclamation, he pulls Dib towards the underground base’s entrance, now concealed under a rug in the hallway. The kitchen trashcan entrance still functions, but certain developments have necessitated a more spacious entry point. The large circular panel drops directly downward as soon as they step on it, and Dib yelps and falls on his butt.

“Are you ever going to fix that?” Dib grouses, once the elevator has landed and he’s mostly sure he can speak without vomiting. Zim just laughs. 

“Why don’t YOU fix your pathetic sense of balance, pig-smelly?”

“I swear, next time I’m making you feed them by yourself.”

They continue to bicker as they travel down winding corridors, through various access gates and secret passageways designed to mislead the unwelcome visitor. At last they arrive at a small, unassuming door marked with one of the seven trillion Irken terms for “garbage.” Zim presses his hand to the door, and the walls around it vanish to reveal a vast room.

It’s the unholy union of a human nursery and an Irken smeetery. The design is based partly on Zim’s memories, which—it must be said—aren’t famed for their clarity. Murals of trial and combat adorn the high walls, their vivid jewel tones clashing with the squishy pastel floor. Toys and games are scattered everywhere, and discarded clothes that will need to be matched up with their owners. A side opening leads to the dormitory, where Dib recently had to haul several stolen cribs. 

In the center of the room, an extensive, twisting structure towers, ponderous with occupants. Zim had balked when Dib called it “play equipment,” and expressed only bafflement when he proposed “jungle gym” instead. It is currently known as “The Citadel.”

The smeets number only a dozen, but sometimes it feels like there are hundreds of them. When Dib and Zim first discovered them, isolated in cells aboard a lost Irken research vessel, Dib had been unable to tell them apart. Six months later, the very thought seems ridiculous. Personality, stature, murderousness, claw size, eye color, antennae shape—the smeets vary widely in every way but one: They’re all defective.

Dib spots GIR on the spire at the top of The Citadel, balancing on one hand before a captivated audience. Tix, the shortest and most daring smeet, watches with especial keenness. With human children, they’d have to worry about the safety of any potential copycats, but when it comes to the smeets it’s not an issue. GIR may actually be demonstrating role model behavior.

GIR, noticing them, almost tumbles from his pose. “Mary! …And also Master!”

Zim _hmphs_ and cups his hands around his mouth to bellow, “SMEETS. WE BRING THE LUNCH SNACK.”

A chittering cheer goes up. Faster than he can greet them, Dib is swarmed with alien children: climbing up his legs, hanging off his arms, clambering onto his shoulders to grab at his hair and discover the one piercing he forgot to take out before coming here. (“Guk! No!”) He turns to Zim for help, but he’s similarly occupied, the tops of his antennae poking above a ring of smeets. They’re interrupted by a squeal from GIR, who found the bag.

“Nooooo!” Dib shouts, diving to intercept GIR before he can open it. For a babysitter, that robot is worse than the babies. Dib’s too late, though; a cascade of Fun Dip and Fun Dip-adjacent knockoff products spills to the floor.

There is a beat of silence, and then the smeets descend.

Dib, by this point in his twenties, has worked at enough disconcertingly themed fast food restaurants to be unfazed by most dining habits. The smeets, however, take the concept of “feeding frenzy” to a whole new level. He stands aside, afraid to step into the fray lest he be scratched to death by delicate but still vicious claws or gnawed to pieces by a thousand zipper teeth.

When the chaos finally settles, Zim examines the timer in his hand—when did he get that out?—and announces, “Two minutes. That’s a new record.”

“Wait, they ate it all already?” Nax and Splar are still rummaging through the bag, scattering torn bits of wrapper behind them. Blorb, at the side, opens his mouth to reveal a disturbing wealth of masticated paper, his tongue stained gray with the mix of candy powders.

“Blorb, close your mouth when you chew,” says Zim automatically. “What do you expect, Dib-human? They’re growing smeets!” Pride swells in his voice.

“That cost me over a hundred dollars, Zim. And it took three hours to go to all those stores.” Dib clenches his teeth and tries to keep his voice down. The smeets are wandering away, starting to play again. They’re not allowed on The Citadel for half an hour after feeding, but some have drifted in that direction anyway. He keeps an eye out.

“Eh, your progenitor is good for the monies.” Zim is looking in the same direction. 

Dib groans at the thought of Professor Membrane, on whom he is still financially dependent. Someday Dib’s podcast is going to take off, okay, and then _he’ll_ be the one disbursing funds to groveling family members. “He’s been asking for receipts. He’s going to think I have a sugar addiction for real now.”

“Don’t you? You drink that cola all the time.”

“I cut back!” 

“Then why does your recycling begin to overflow with cans two days after trash day?”

“Why are you keeping tabs on my recycling?”

Zim cackles. “Why not?”

“Zim, I don’t feel like playing the question game right now—” Dib is distracted by a sudden, sharp pain in his leg. “AGH! Tix, get off me!” A scuffle ensues.

“There are better ways to get attention than biting,” Dib chides, when he’s peeled Tix from his leg and is holding her in the air. The little smeet stares at him, bold and unrepentant.

“She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t respond,” says Zim.

“You know, you’re the last person in the galaxy who should be saying that, considering how you spoil her.” Dib shifts Tix into the crook of his arm and rocks her, calmed a little when she starts to purr.

“I spoil them all,” Zim dismisses grandly. “Anyway, as I was saying, they’re growing smeets. They’re going to need even more food soon.”

“Then we need to come up with a different meal strategy, because I can’t keep cleaning out a new town’s 11-Sevens every day.”

“Ah. Zim has thought of that!” Zim cups his hands around his mouth again. “GIR!”

GIR salutes and runs over. He’s got Jed, the tallest smeet, on his back. Jed is very skinny, and his legs dangle almost to the ground. He whoops when GIR does a little jump and salute.

“Show the Dib our new plan. For the foods.” Zim takes Jed so that GIR can open his head to retrieve a blueprint.

Dib reads over it, frowning, still rocking Tix. It’s… a recipe? It calls for sugar, scrap metal, fake meat, and some rare chemical compounds that Dib can probably steal from his dad’s lab. It also has over 200 steps and apparently requires several tons of industrial wax.

“Zim, this seems like it could be streamlined.”

“Nonsense. The plan is flawless in its simplicity.”

“Do you really need,” Dib scans the page, “35 rubber boars? And just one marshmallow?”

“I knew he wouldn’t like the boars,” Zim stage-whispers to Jed, then speaks normally to Dib. “Yes, every item is necessary. Haven’t you learned by now not to question my wisdom?”

“I question your wisdom all the time,” Dib scoffs. But Zim isn’t listening, his attention caught by something across the room. One of the smeets is climbing The Citadel.

“Guk! Get down from there!” Zim shouts. He takes off, a chortling Jed slung over his shoulder and GIR close on his heels. Some of the other smeets quit playing to join them, flanking Zim on both sides and echoing his yells. Dib watches with exasperation and private fondness. He has a feeling he’ll be out for longer than three hours this afternoon.

“Guess I’ll have to find a place that sells individual marshmallows,” he says to Tix, who’s asleep. He shifts her to his other arm, smiling when she cuddles in, and doesn’t mind when she snores. Mostly.


End file.
